Underestimating Miss Cecilia

by Carolyn Miller

  Ned obeyed, not dismayed to see Lady Aynsley’s maid hurry towards them, reaching to grasp Lady Aynsley’s other arm as she looked ready to collapse.

  “There, there, my lady, dear Miss Cecilia is in good hands. You need not fear. Mr. Amherst is always such a good friend to her, aren’t you, sir, and you can be sure he would have done all he could to help her.” She led them to Lady Aynsley’s room. “Now, sir, if you would be so good as to help her over here onto the bed—there. That’s right, my lady, you close your eyes and rest, that’s the way. Your dear daughter is in good hands.”

  “And in all our prayers,” Ned added, pacing back to leave.

  Lady Aynsley’s eyes opened, her gaze wearied yet seemingly as piercing as ever, but for once they did not seem to hold condemnation. “Thank you.”

  He bowed, she closed her eyes, and he exited the room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SİX

  ALDERSHOT HOUSE WAS silent, the gloom pervading inside weighing heavy on all their hearts. She did not waken that first day. She did not waken the next day. Or the one after that. The doctor spoke about a coma, a deep state of unconsciousness from which nothing would rouse her until the body was ready. Or until God was ready, Ned thought, gripping the billiards cue. Their days had numbed to a quiet hush, guests leaving until only Ned remained with Simon. Simon’s presence as Lady Aldershot’s godson was not questioned. Ned wrote to beg further leave from Uncle Lionel, justifying his continued presence as being neighborly, as he conducted various offices for Lady Aynsley.

  After her collapse on Saturday, she had recovered her strength, working with Lady Aldershot’s housekeeper and her lady’s maid to assist the doctor in whatever was deemed necessary.

  The doctor’s prognosis was grim, his words couched to soothe Lady Aynsley with “wait and see.” But when Ned questioned him more closely, he admitted, “Even if the young lady does awaken, it is very likely she will suffer a sizable brain injury.”

  Horror filled him. “You mean—?”

  Dr. Jamison sighed. “I mean she could be blind. She will probably have trouble speaking. She may struggle to recognize people. She may be injured to such a degree that she cannot even think clearly. We just don’t know these things.”

  Dear God. He grasped the wall for support.

  “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but as you are a family friend, I think it best you be prepared in case Miss Hatherleigh awakens and her mental state shocks those around her.”

  “Of … of course,” he’d managed.

  But there was no “of course” about it. How could his help make any real difference?

  He lined up the ball, hit it, but it spun uselessly to the side. Much like he felt his role was here. After the first day of writing letters to Lord Aynsley and Caro Carstairs, he’d been virtually twiddling his thumbs, waiting for whatever he could do to ease Cecy’s or Lady Aynsley’s burdens. But no missives had arrived for this all-too-willing knight. There was no dragon to slay, save the one in the room that lay heavy around her head. Leaving him fighting the fears of speculation with prayers borne from his desperate, at times wavering, faith.

  He picked up the cue, placed it in the rack, then moved to the window and pressed his forehead against the glass. Beyond, the gravel drive veered oddly, the glass distortions adding weird effect. He closed his eyes, and prayed for what must be the umpteenth time.

  “Dear heavenly Father, please heal Cecy. Help her regain full health.” A sob shuddered in his chest, begging release. “I—” His voice broke. “I could not stand it if she was less than she ought to be. She is so sweet, and thoughtful, and kind. Please heal her, make her body strong, protect her mind, her sight, everything. Lord, be with those who love her, give us strength and hope—”

  A creaking noise startled him. He opened his eyes and spun around. Lady Aynsley stood in the doorway, an odd expression on her face.

  “Lady Aynsley.” He bowed. “You seem much refreshed.” He tried for a smile; failed. “How is the patient?”

  “There has been no change. Which is … why I am here.” She glanced behind her, then closed the door. “You must forgive me, but I wish to speak with you about … some matters that concern dearest Cecilia.”

  “Of course.”

  “I … I do not know if you were aware of the fact my daughter has for quite some time held you in high regard.”

  He inclined his head. “Once, perhaps, but not, I fear, now.”

  “No matter.” She shook her head. “It is something I ask you to consider.” She made a face. “I am not entirely certain about the wisdom of such things, but the doctor believes it could be helpful. Of course, I cannot argue with his wisdom, so I beg leave to ask you this.”

  At her hesitation, he said gently, “Ask me what, madam?”

  “Would you so oblige me by coming to the sick room and sitting beside my daughter? I … I cannot help but think this smacks of gross impropriety, but the doctor assures me that patients in these circumstances have been known to respond to the voices of those … to those they care about.”

  Her lips flattened, her eyes now holding an indignant blaze that made him wonder. Did she think Cecy did not respond to her entreaties because she did not love her mother?

  “Madam, I will do whatever you ask. I assure you I will only speak as a brother might.” A close brother, one who might dare assure her of his love.

  “I would be obliged to you.” She moved as if to walk away, then paused.

  “You mean now?”

  “If you please.”

  He acquiesced, and followed, accompanying her silently as they ascended the great stairs. At the entrance of the room, the door closed before them, she placed a hand out, as if to warn him.

  “I may be obliged to you, but you must know I am unwilling to see you succeed in securing my daughter’s heart.”

  Disappointment crashed against his chest, but he nodded. “I understand.”

  “Do not say things that cannot be unsaid. I hope you take my meaning?”

  “Of course, madam.” Those words had already been spoken.

  He entered the room, and stole softly to the bed, seeing Cecy for the first time since the incident. The gash on her forehead was neatly bandaged now, but she remained unnaturally still, her complexion pale, the chestnut curls framing her face the only color. A chair beside the bed seemed placed for his role, so he moved there, nodded to the doctor, and moved to grasp her hand.

  Lady Aynsley frowned, but said nothing, and he angled away to gaze upon the woman he loved. “Good afternoon, Cecy,” he whispered. “You’re looking very lovely today.”

  The sheet-shrouded figure remained motionless, the slightest rise and fall of her chest the only sign she lived. He gently squeezed her hand. What could he say that would meet with her mother’s approval? That would be innocuous, but might still somehow reach Cecy’s soul?

  “Do you know I was thinking about you, thinking how strange it was that you would choose to ride the other day, because I always thought it was your sister who preferred such things. Remember Verity?”

  He squeezed again. “I recall a funny story about her. Remember? I think it might even have been you who told me about it. Apparently, she was dared to ride her horse—up the back stairs at Aynsley!” He smiled, ignoring the sniff behind him. “When I told my mother—you remember her, don’t you, Lady Rovingham?—she laughed and said that dear Verity always had so much spunk. But I suppose spunk is not only Verity’s domain. After all, you would not be lying here if you hadn’t dared to ride the other day.”

  Still nothing. But his innocuous words appeared to appease her mother, so when the doctor encouraged her to rest she simply bade Ned to “mind what we spoke upon before” and left.

  Freed from her presence, the doctor was more candid. “Sir, if this be a lady you care for, then I would encourage you to speak what she might want to hear. It’s no good tiptoeing around with propriety; my experience has shown that it is far more likely to be desperation th
at draws one from such things, rather than meek compliance.”

  Ned nodded, thankful for his understanding. He squeezed her hand, then gently raised it to his lips. “Cecy, Cecy, darling. Please wake up.”

  Nothing.

  “You should know that I adore you. You should know I’ve been a fool and not treated you as you deserve. Darling Cecy, please wake up.”

  No response.

  He rose from his seat, half squatting beside the bed as he whispered closer to her ear. “Cecy, dearest Cecy, please, won’t you wake and let this man kiss you? Or if not, then wake and tell me all the ways I’ve been a fool. I’m sure you can do that.”

  Still nothing.

  Then—

  A hitch of breath. Ned glanced up at the doctor, whose frown grooved his face as he lifted her wrist to feel her pulse.

  “Try again.”

  Ned squeezed her hand, harder this time, though not enough to hurt her, before pressing his lips more firmly on the back of her hand. “Cecy? I know that you can hear me, my love.” He spoke more loudly. “Cecy, darling, you need to wake up. You need to tell me I’m a fool for not treating you as you deserve.”

  Another hitch of breath.

  “Again,” Dr. Jamison commanded.

  Ned leaned closer still, resting his elbows on the mattress as he brushed her hair back from her face. “Cecy, dearest one, I love you so very much. Please wake up. I know you might not wish to see me, but I would love to see your beautiful eyes again. I don’t want to be without you, and even if all you do for the rest of your days is run away when you see me, that would be enough.” A wry chuckle slipped past the strain. “Actually, it wouldn’t be nearly enough, but it would make me happy to know that you are happy. And I will do whatever it takes to help you be happy.” He pressed a kiss to her brow. “And if that means being away so you can be happy with Abbotsbury, then so be it. I know I have been a fool, but I would rather see you happy than seek my own gain.”

  Another twitch.

  “Dear Lord,” he prayed aloud. “Please heal my darling Cecy. Heal her in mind, body, and soul. Help her regain her spirits, her joy, her life. Heal her soon, I pray. Amen.”

  Another movement.

  He pressed his lips to her hair.

  “Darling, dearest one. Be healed in Jesus’s name. Be restored to fullness.” He grasped her hand, slipped his fingers between her still ones. “I thank God for His forgiveness, and can only pray that one day you, too, will forgive me. Sometimes”—his voice lowered—“sometimes I dare to pray that you will find it in your heart to love me again. Or is that so very presumptuous to think you ever loved me at all?”

  Her fingers twitched.

  He stared at their entwined hands. “She moved.”

  “It may just be a reflex,” the doctor cautioned.

  “You think she hears me?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “Then will she remember what I say?”

  The doctor looked at him, not without a trace of compassion. “It is hard to say. These cases are often quite different. She may not even awaken, remember.”

  “I know. But …” Ned moved back to position, one arm resting on the mattress, the other gently smoothing her hair from her brow. How soft it was. How curly. How alive. He pressed another kiss to her temple, vaguely conscious of movement behind him, as he murmured, “I’m sure that I’m the world’s biggest fool, but I love you, darling Cecy.”

  Her breath caught.

  His heart stilled.

  And a voice said, “How dare you speak to my sister like that?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  NED GLANCED UP, freezing, as the avenging Aynsley daughter approached.

  “Caro, wait, I can explain—”

  “You had better! How dare you insult poor Cecy like that?” In an action reminiscent of her mother, her face crumpled, and she was soon sobbing in his arms.

  He rubbed her back, nodding to her mother who had entered with her, before gently pushing Caro from his chest. “Cecy might look terribly pale, but she is starting to respond. I think she can hear us.”

  She swiped at her eyes. “Then why were you speaking to her so? How can you call yourself a fool for loving my dear sister?”

  “What?”

  Ned gritted his teeth, wishing Lady Aynsley’s hearing wasn’t quite so keen. “Forgive me, Lady Aynsley, but the doctor asked me to speak what I thought poor Cecy would wish to hear.”

  “But that is not what I asked you to do! And I am her mother!”

  “Yes, but your daughter is my patient,” said Dr. Jamison, “and what I say takes precedence in a sickroom.”

  “But—”

  “And I am pleased to say that thanks to my tactics your daughter appears to be responding, which gives us hope that she won’t have suffered damage to the brain.”

  “Brain damage!” gasped Caro, paling like she might faint.

  Ned propelled her to the chair, where she collapsed with a huff of thanks. He crouched before her. “Cecy doesn’t have brain damage,” he said slowly. “Do you understand?”

  She nodded, eyes wide.

  “You need to calm yourself. She does not need loud voices or hysteria. She needs to hear words of affirmation.”

  Again, she nodded.

  “Good.” He pushed to his feet and nodded to the doctor, to Lady Aynsley. “I will leave you, but know she remains in my prayers.”

  “Thank you,” the doctor said, as Caro grasped her sister’s fingers.

  “Cecy?” she said in a quiet voice.

  He hurried from the room, a wry smile pushing past his concern at the thought her sister might be the one to dispel the fog of unconsciousness. If his memory served, the two sisters possessed a relationship fraught with tension, not harmony. He hoped—he prayed—today might see healing of all sorts of things.

  “Edward.”

  He stilled. Pivoted. Bowed to Lady Aynsley. “Yes, my lady?”

  She strode towards him, holding something that looked like a leather-bound book, eyes fixed, face taut. “I thought I made it clear you were not to speak endearments to her.”

  “I’m sorry, Lady Aynsley, but as I said earlier, my instructions from the doctor were to speak what she might wish to hear.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Lady Aynsley, surely you rejoice with me that there are some hopeful signs of recovery? Do you not thank God that this is the case? I certainly do.”

  Her eyes shuttered, her mouth flattened.

  It would seem she did not.

  “I understand you are very close to her, or perhaps you would like to be. But I also hope you understand that you will never suit her. She is not someone to be trifled with, she is not someone whose affections can be meddled with according to your whims.”

  He shook his head. “I have not meddled—”

  “I have not finished! If you care for my daughter like you say you do, then I request that you leave. Leave today. Do us the courtesy of fulfilling what you said earlier and doing whatever is necessary to see my daughter brought back to health and happiness. She will not find happiness with you. She cannot! So, if you leave you will be helping her to better health.”

  “I do not agree.”

  She gasped. “You are insolent!”

  “I am not. I simply agree with the doctor, who says she’s improving.”

  “He is a fool. It was the merest coincidence she responded when she did. Nothing to do with you, I assure you.” She thrust the small book at him. It was a journal, opened to the last page. “Cecilia may have been fool enough to care for you once upon a time, but look, read what she wrote, and you’ll understand why she needs you to leave.”

  He numbly took the book. Cecy’s handwriting lay before him, accusingly: I do not care for Edward Amherst. He is too presumptuous, too proprietary, and I have no wish to further our acquaintance.

  His heart writhed. How could she think that? Oh, what had he done?

  Then, his eyes dropped to the
next entry, plunging his sinking spirits deeper still.

  I find the Marquess of Abbotsbury everything a young gentleman ought to be. And I would have no wish to see anything hinder our further acquaintance. Fortunately, Mother seems to agree …

  Too late, her words seemed to cry. He had recognized the young lady whose value surpassed rubies too late! His chest throbbed with tightness; he pressed his lips together to suppress the howl of pain.

  “She cares for you no longer, see? So your words, your being here, is not actually helping her any. Really, you would be doing everyone far more good if you would simply leave.”

  But how could he abandon her? Except … “You truly think she wishes me gone?”

  “Yes!”

  That perhaps explained her aversion, her refusal to speak to him. A dizzying sensation clutched at him. But he needed to still speak, to still say, “Lady Aynsley, I am sorry if my regard for your daughter distresses you. Please know that I care for Cecy above my own happiness, and if you truly believe she will be happier with someone like Abbotsbury—”

  “I know she will!”

  “—then I will leave. But I am not sorry for the chance to tell her that I love her. And I do not regret that you know the same.” He bowed. “Good day, madam.”

  He turned and walked downstairs, trying his best to hold onto a semblance of dignity, even though his limbs, his composure felt shaky. In the drawing room Simon looked up from his conversation with Lord Robert and Gideon Carstairs.

  Ned managed to bow, make his greetings, but remained standing. “I fear our time together has drawn to a close.” He would not expose Lady Aynsley’s command; it felt too raw. “It seems I must withdraw to London. I have been away too long from my work there, and although it would be pleasant to renew our acquaintance”—he nodded to Carstairs—“when duty calls …” He faked a grin.

  Simon eyed him uncertainly. “You are truly leaving now?”